A Wedding on Ladybug Farm

by Donna Ball

  “How many more of these do we have to make, anyway?” Lindsay said, scrubbing the counter with a paper towel.

  “We’re almost done,” Bridget assured her.

  “Like I said, it’s your own fault,” Ida Mae said. She snatched the shredded paper towel from Lindsay and put a wet cloth in her hand instead. “A woman gets married, she takes her husband’s name …” She gave Lindsay a dark look. “She moves into his house, she puts up with his mother, she raises her kids under his roof. ‘Raise up a child in the way he should go,’” she quoted, “‘and when he is old he shall not depart from it.’ Your own damn fault.”

  Cici compressed her lips against a smile and Bridget gave an amused half-shrug, but Lindsay looked oddly uncomfortable. She wiped her hands on the cloth. “Um, girls, could I talk to you about something?”

  Cici glanced at her curiously. “Sure, Linds.”

  And Bridget said, “Is anything wrong?”

  Lindsay bit her bottom lip briefly, twisting the cloth in her hand. “No. It’s just that Dominic and I were talking and …”

  The phone rang. Lindsay looked relieved. “Never mind,” she said quickly, “I’ll get it.”

  Bridget and Cici exchanged a puzzled look as Lindsay hurried to answer the phone. Ida Mae warned, “Y’all are getting behind.” She pushed through the swinging door to the pantry, where the freezer was stored, with a basket filled with packaged crab puffs.

  On the telephone, Lindsay said, “Oh, hi, Paul!”

  Bridget and Cici turned back to filling the crab puffs, and Lindsay said, “Really? That’s fabulous! You are an angel! See you in a few.”

  She hung up the phone and turned back toward them. “That was Paul,” she said. “My dress is here. I promised I’d be right over to try it on.” She looked in dismay at the trays of pastries. “I hate to leave you with all this …”

  Bridget hesitated, then smiled. “Go.” She waved her on. “We’re almost done anyway.”

  Cici said, “What was that you wanted to talk to us about? Before the phone rang?”

  For a moment Lindsay looked troubled, and then she gave a brief shake of her head. “It was nothing. I’ll tell you later.” She turned for the door, grabbing her keys on the way. “Oh,” she called back over your shoulder. “Your dresses are here too! I’ll bring them back with me!”

  “But,” Cici protested, and heard the screen door slam. “I wanted to try my dress on too,” she finished, a little forlornly, to Bridget.

  Bridget just gave a satisfied nod and picked up the pace with the biscuit cutter. “Thank goodness,” she said. “We’ll get this done twice as fast without her, and I might even be able to finish painting the room this afternoon. We can start moving in furniture tomorrow!”

  ~*~

  Chapter Nine

  A Matter of Perspective

  “Oh my,” Lindsay exclaimed softly, turning in profile to the mirror, “you can’t even tell it was let out! The seamstress is a genius.”

  “She should be,” Derrick said, stroking his chin as he assessed the drape of the train with a critical eye. “She was trained by Vera herself.”

  “Not entirely,” Paul corrected. He snapped the last hook and made a minute adjustment to the bow at the waist. “But she did train under someone who worked for one of the seamstresses in the New York salon. Seriously, you don’t think we’d trust it to an amateur, do you?”

  He held up the jacket and Lindsay slipped her arms into the sleeves. He pretended not to notice the bandage on her hand.

  “Perfect!” exclaimed Derrick. “Love the way the bow fits into the V in back, and those lace panels look like they were custom made.”

  “They were.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Without taking his eyes off Lindsay, Paul held out his hand and Derrick placed the satin shoes in them. Balancing herself with a hand on Paul’s shoulder, Lindsay slipped them on. Paul held out his hand again, and Derrick swept the hat from its nest of tissue on the bed and presented it to him. Paul maintained an intense and concentrated silence as he finger-combed and curled Lindsay’s hair, pinned it over one shoulder, and arranged the cloche just atop the opposite ear.

  “Perfection,” breathed Derrick, pressing his hands together, and Lindsay gave a hesitant, excited smile.

  Paul stepped back, examining his work critically. “You have earrings, yes?’

  “Oh.” Lindsay touched her bare ears. “Yes, they’re my something borrowed.”

  “Nothing on the neck,” Paul advised. “It would only take away from your utterly flawless décolletage, and who knows how many more years you’ll be able to say that? Ask that gorgeous fiancé of yours to give you a bracelet.”

  She pointed out, “He’s already giving me a ring.”

  “Who do you have to do your hair and makeup?”

  “Well …”

  Purline volunteered from the door, “My sister does hair.”

  Derrick said, “We could probably get Georgette to come down for the day.”

  Lindsay said worriedly, “I really hadn’t planned …”

  Paul said, “Bridget would have to double the size of the buffet. The woman eats like a horse.”

  “I kind of thought I’d do my own,” Lindsay said.

  Purline said, “I knew a woman that gave herself a home permanent once. All her hair fell out and when it grew back it was stone white.”

  Derrick stared at her, and Lindsay touched her hair uneasily. “I thought I’d just touch up the color. Nothing major.”

  “Her eyebrows fell off too,” Purline said.

  Now everyone stared at her and she explained, “She tried to bleach them. Burned them right off.”

  Paul pulled his gaze away from her and told Derrick, “Call Georgette.”

  Purline said, “My sister does makeup too.”

  “Purline,” Derrick said, “was there something we can help you with?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I’m making rum-raisin pears for Sunday brunch and I need to know how many folks we’re expecting.”

  “Rum raisin pears?” repeated Lindsay, interested. “That sounds delicious.”

  “It is,” Derrick confided, “out of this world. She uses a streusel topping …”

  “Which would be better with a sprinkle of cardamom,” Paul pointed out.

  Purline scowled at him. “Do you know how much cardamom is a bottle? You’d go broke in two Sundays.”

  “And serves it with whipped cream,” Derrick said.

  “Which would be better with a smidge of vanilla bean shaved on top,” Paul said.

  Purline rolled her eyes and Derrick supplied quickly, “Twenty-two. Twenty-two people for brunch.”

  Purline gave Lindsay one last appraising look and said before she left, “The dress looks real nice. But my mama could’ve fixed it for you for half the price.”

  Lindsay grinned when she left. “She’s going to be just like Ida Mae in fifty years, you know.”

  “Lord preserve us,” Paul groaned, “if we have to wait fifty years.”

  And then Lindsay said, bracing herself for the bad news, “So, how much were the alterations? And does she take credit cards?”

  Paul waved away the question. “Not a penny, darling. The woman owes me a favor.”

  “He got her daughter into the Ford agency,” Derrick explained. “She’s making ten thousand dollars an hour now.”

  “Has a hideous cocaine problem,” added Paul, “but I can hardly be held responsible for that.”

  Lindsay laughed and hugged him lightly, careful not to crush the dress. “I don’t know whether that’s true or not, but I love you for it.”

  He smiled and patted her cheek. “It will all be worthwhile if we can just get you to the altar without breaking a major bone or slashing an artery,” he assured her. He spun her around deftly and began unsnapping hooks. “Now let’s get you out of that dress before someone comes in here with a glass of grape juice.”

  Lindsay laughed, mostly at the notio
n of anyone at the Hummingbird House drinking anything so mundane as grape juice.

  “We’ve decided on traditional cutaways,” Paul said, “even though it is a little non-traditional for an afternoon wedding. But this isn’t exactly a traditional wedding, is it?”

  “I’ll wear rose,” said Derrick.

  “And I’ll wear garnet,” said Paul.

  Lindsay kept a nonjudgmental expression. “Jackets?”

  “No, precious, cummerbunds. Honestly, what are we, ringmasters?”

  “And for precisely that reason,” Paul said with a pointed look at Derrick, “we decided to eschew the top hats.”

  The way Derrick remained deliberately silent suggested the decision had not been entirely mutual.

  Lindsay smiled. “You guys are the best, do you know that?”

  “We certainly aspire to be.”

  “No, I’m serious.” She blinked at little at the surprise of the bright autumn sun when they stepped from shade on the dappled light of the path. “Before I came over here I was really starting to wonder if I was making a mistake, you know?”

  Paul stopped still, staring at her, horror and outrage widening his eyes. “I do not know! This wedding is perfection. Nothing about it is a mistake!”

  Derrick added with a note of panic, “You are not getting cold feet. Tell me you’re not.”

  Lindsay raised a calming hand. “Relax. Everything’s fine.” She started walking again and her companions, watching her cautiously, fell in beside her. “It’s just that every time I turn around I’m bumping into something or breaking something, and every decision I make is the wrong one, and everyone is working so hard, and, really, aren’t we too old for all of this? Yesterday Dominic spent twelve hours bottling wine and then after supper started hanging the lights in the gazebo because he didn’t think he’d have another chance to do it before the wedding, and Ida Mae almost fell off a ladder the other day trying to clean the chandelier, and the girls have been baking and freezing food all week and then going upstairs to work on the master suite, and Dominic sold his house and I was afraid to even tell them because he wants us to build our own place.” She ran out of breath then and just stood there for a moment, tracking down her thoughts. “Not that it matters because of course we already planned to live at Ladybug Farm, that was the plan and it’s already settled, but my point is, I was really starting to think the whole thing might be just a giant mistake, and way more trouble than it was worth. But then I saw the dress, and it was as though the last puzzle piece fell into place. It’s perfect. Everything about it is just perfect. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be. A wedding is just a symbol of what you wish for your marriage—fairy-tale perfect. Of course you know it’s not going to be, but for that one day … well, having the perfect dress is a symbol, that’s all, but it’s an important symbol. So thank you!”

  They both looked mightily confused, but thoroughly relieved. “Darling, anything we can do,” Paul assured her.

  “We are completely at your service,” Derrick added sincerely. “Completely.”

  They helped her place the garments in the back of the car, and Lindsay turned to hug them both. “I love you guys, I really do! Thank you so much for everything!”

  Kisses all around, and she drove away, delighted.

  ~*~

  Without Lindsay’s help, Bridget and Cici were able to finish the crab puffs in less than half an hour. They cleaned the kitchen, left the last trays to cool, and were finishing the final coat of Wedgewood blue on the master suite when they heard Lindsay’s car pull up. They quickly put aside their brushes, stripped off their gloves, and helped Lindsay carry the garment bags and boxes up the stairs.

  Lindsay was too superstitious to try the dress on again, but she did unzip it from its bag and spread it out on the bed, complete with hat and shoes, for Cici and Bridget to admire. Bridget and Cici couldn’t wait to try on their own dresses, and Lindsay clapped her hands in delight when she saw them.

  “Perfect!” she exclaimed, and Cici and Bridget each returned a small curtsey in her bare feet. Lindsay pressed her clasped hands to her lips, her eyes shining. “Now it’s all coming together. How gorgeous are those colors going to look in the photographs against the background of the mountains and the turning leaves? Paul is a genius!”

  “A fact with which he’d be quick to agree,” Cici said, turning to admire herself in Lindsay’s full-length mirror.

  “He was right about the pink, too,” Bridget agreed, spreading the folds of her skirt. “It’s stunning on me.”

  “That’s because it’s French rose,” Lindsay reminded her, “not pink.”

  “And this style is classic,” Cici added. “Thank you for not picking something ugly and bridesmaid-y.”

  “I would never do that to you,” Lindsay assured her. “Now, about the shoes …”

  “Paul said dyed-to-match is totally out,” Cici said. “Come look at the nude pumps I ordered when I thought I’d be wearing them to Lori’s wedding.” She led the way to her room. “If you like them, Bridget can order a pair. Three-day delivery, free shipping.”

  They had just reached Cici’s room when the phone rang. She went to answer it.

  “It’s got to be Paul,” Lindsay said, “making sure the gown arrived safely.”

  And then she heard Cici exclaim, “Noah!” She waved the other two over excitedly, and as Lindsay reached for the phone she said, “Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker.”

  She pushed the button and replaced the handset. Everyone hovered over the microphone. “Hi, Noah, it’s me!” Lindsay said, and Bridget added, “And me!”

  “Hi, guys,” Noah said. “Listen, I don’t have long but they wanted everyone to call home and let you know there’s going to be a communications blackout for a while. Don’t know how long. You’re not supposed to worry.”

  But when the three women’s eyes met, worry was exactly what was reflected there. “Why?” Lindsay demanded. “What’s going on?”

  “Don’t know,” Noah said. “They don’t tell us privates everything, you know. Even if they did,” he added truthfully, “I probably wouldn’t be able to tell you. That’s why there’s a blackout.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Bridget put in. “How long will this blackout be?”

  “Don’t know,” he repeated. “But until then, no calls, no e-mail. You can send me stuff, though. You know, in the mail. By the way, thanks for all the cool stuff you sent last time.”

  “You’re welcome,” Cici said. “But Noah—”

  “Gotta go,” he said, “really.”

  “We love you, Noah,” Lindsay said quickly. “And call the minute you can.”

  “Roger that. Bye.”

  When he was gone, the three women stood looking at each other, their puzzled expressions tempered with concern. “He sounded excited,” Bridget ventured.

  “I thought he sounded scared,” Lindsay said.

  Cici said, “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. It’s probably just routine. A drill, or …” She trailed off.

  Lindsay said abruptly, “I’m going to see what I can find out on the Internet.”

  She turned for the door and the other two followed. But two steps into the hall Lindsay stopped so abruptly that Bridget bumped into her.

  “What?” Bridget demanded.

  Lindsay just stood still, staring at the floor. Bridget followed her gaze. Cici edged around her to see what they were looking at.

  “Oh, no,” she said.

  There on the gleaming hardwood floor at Lindsay’s feet was a bright smudge of blue paint, and next to it another. Beyond that was another. All of the smudges were shaped like paw prints, and they led, inexorably, to the open door of Lindsay’s room.

  In united, silent, dry-throated dread, the three of them followed the paw prints down the hall, through the door. There they found the kitten, its paws tinted with blue paint, contentedly curled up on the once-perfect Vera Wang.

  ~*~

 
; “Not a good day,” Cici said heavily. She poured a measure of wine into a glass, reconsidered, and poured a little more. She handed the glass to Bridget.

  “It’s only three o’clock,” Bridget protested, but not very convincingly.

  “Feels later.” Cici poured another glass.

  “Well,” said Lindsay, coming into the kitchen, “I guess the good news is that I didn’t pay full price.”

  Cici handed her a glass of wine.

  Bridget’s face was torn with lines of distress. “Lindsay, did I tell you how sorry I am? I thought I had closed the door. I thought I’d covered the paint tray. The kitten wasn’t even in the house when I started painting, I swear. I couldn’t be more upset.”

  Lindsay patted her arm reassuringly. “It wasn’t your fault, Bridge. It was an accident.”

  Cici leaned against the counter with her own glass in hand. “I don’t suppose Paul had any ideas about the dress?”

  “I don’t know.” Lindsay took a sip of her wine. “I couldn’t hear him over the weeping. His, not mine.”

  Cici winced.

  “I got as much of the paint out as I could,” Bridget assured Lindsay anxiously, “and I left it soaking in liquid soap and warm water, but …” Her tone was dejected. “I don’t think it’s salvageable.”

  Lindsay nodded. She seemed surprisingly sanguine about the whole thing. It was a little spooky.

  A savory stew simmered on the back burner; their first of the year. Half a bottle of merlot had been used to deglaze the pan; they were drinking the rest. A swirl of yellow leaves danced past the window on a vagrant breeze, and Ida Mae had a covered loaf of wheat bread rising in the warm corner near the range. All were signs of a fast-approaching autumn. They could practically hear the year spinning out.

  Lindsay opened the refrigerator and took out a block of cheese. The other two women watched cautiously as she selected a knife from the rack, and began to slice the cheese onto a platter. “Do you remember,” she said, “when I first started planning the wedding and I was so worried about all the other wedding problems that we’d had here? And then I started having all those stupid accidents and you thought it was because I didn’t want to get married?”